


The Fourth of July

by Pigzxo



Series: Rovinsky Holidays [4]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Fourth of July, Hand Jobs, Illegal Activities, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sobriety, and you will not like it, yes this is the first part with adam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-21 14:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11359737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigzxo/pseuds/Pigzxo
Summary: Kavinsky insists on throwing his annual Fourth of July party despite Ronan's misgivings.





	The Fourth of July

Kavinsky held a package of most-definitely-illegal fireworks in his hands like he was weighing them. The man in front of him, the man selling fireworks out the back of his pick-up truck, looked bored. Ronan got the sense that he knew, no matter how much Kavinsky bitched, that he was going to buy from him. The rest was all a game, a power play, something Kavinsky did to meet his daily asshole quota.

            “This is a bad idea,” Ronan said for what seemed like the seven hundredth time.

            Kavinsky smirked as he looked over his shoulder at Ronan. “Thought you liked bad ideas.”

            “Why would you think that?”

            “You like me.”

            Kavinsky pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket and handed it over to the man. The man started to hand him boxes and Kavinsky handed the boxes back to Ronan to put in Gansey’s sedan. Ronan had “borrowed” it for this excursion despite his misgivings about it. As soon as all the boxes were out of the truck and out of the man’s hands, he drove off, leaving them on the side of the road with a fuck-ton of illegal fireworks.

            “I’ve heard the stories. Your Fourth of July parties always get way out of hand.” Ronan shut the trunk and turned to Kavinsky with his arms crossed. “Cars blowing up, people dying, the cops buzzing around.”

            “The cops don’t bother me.”

            “Maybe they didn’t when you were a rich bitch, but now?”

            Kavinsky raised an eyebrow and took a step closer, looking more amused than annoyed. Ronan hated that. He wanted Kavinsky annoyed right now, wanted him pissed, wanted him mad enough that Ronan knew he understood that Ronan was dead serious about calling off the party. But instead Kavinsky just let his snake-like smirk settle across his lips as he pulled Ronan closer by the hem of his t-shirt and said, “Is Ronan Lynch, the second in line to the Lynch family inheritance, calling _me_ a rich bitch?”

            Ronan set his mouth into a thin line, refused to get lost in Kavinsky’s black hole eyes. “You’ve been good,” Ronan said. “You’ve been so fucking good since you left rehab. You’re clean. Your probation’s almost over. Do you really want to throw that all away for one party?”

            “Not one party. My _Fourth of July_ party.”

            Ronan frowned even though a hint of annoyance had finally entered Kavinsky’s voice. “There’ll be drugs there.”

            “Well, I do have a reputation to uphold, Lynch.”

            “You also have sobriety to uphold, K.”

            Kavinsky blew out a puff of air right into Ronan’s face. His eyes flicked off Ronan’s, almost entering an eye roll but stopping just short. “I’m sober. I’m clean. Whatever you wanna call it. Have been for months. But now Fourth of July is coming and I’m _happy._ Don’t you wanna see me happy?”

            “I thought you were happy.”

            Kavinsky opened his mouth to reply and then shut it. He laid a hand against Ronan’s neck, pulled their foreheads together, but somehow managed to not quite meet his eyes. In a quiet voice, the one Ronan had come to associate with confessions, with late night ramblings, with moments where Kavinsky said things so true they turned out to be lies, he said, “You make me happy but you also make me not myself. This party is me in my purest form and I don’t want to let that go for you. I don’t think I should have to.”

            Ronan searched Kavinsky’s face or tried too. He was so close, so overwhelmingly close and warm in the summer heat. He could feel the sweat on their foreheads, the unbearable breeze of Kavinsky’s breathing. “I don’t want you to,” Ronan said, trying to sound like it was the truth. “But I also don’t want you to slip. I don’t want you back in jail, back in rehab, back in the _hospital._ K, I can’t... I thought it was bad the first time. But now?”

            Kavinsky kissed him, quick and hard. Then he stepped back. “Nothing is going to go wrong,” he said, voice steady. “My parties have never once ended badly for me.”

 

The party planning went on and Ronan’s protests slowly petered out. He still worried, still stayed up at night to listen to Kavinsky’s breathing just to make sure, still wanted to stop every illegal thing Kavinsky bought or planned, but he couldn’t deny one simple thing: Kavinsky was happy. In all the time he’d known him, in all the time he’d dated him, he’d never seen the pure joy that overcame Kavinsky while planning the party. His quiet neutrality had never been happiness, never meant he was content. Now that Ronan knew what happy looked like on him, he never wanted to be the person to take it away.

            On July first, Kavinsky walked through the front door wearing an oversized leather jacket and sagging jeans. He met Ronan’s eyes with forced calm and raised his hands in surrender. “Do not get mad,” he said like he was speaking to a child who was about to learn their trip to Disneyland had been cancelled.

            Ronan froze, his fingers stilling on the keys of his laptop. He wanted to take his feet off the coffee table, to move his computer aside, to shift to face Kavinsky, but the signals from his brain to his body had been cut off. He’d known this was coming. Kavinsky had warned him for days, told him time and time again, even reminded him again when he left a couple of hours ago. Ronan knew. So why did he feel like it was the first time he was hearing about it?

            Slowly, Kavinsky dug into his pockets and dumped package after package of pills onto the table. All colours and shapes and sizes. Then he moved on to the powders, all packaged together by type, labelled with single letters. Finally, he dropped a couple bags of joints on top of it all with a shrug. “For the lightweights,” he said.

            Ronan wanted to swallow his tongue.

            Kavinsky stared at him for a moment and then sank to his side of the couch. Tentatively, he placed a hand on Ronan’s shoulder and squeezed. “You all right, Lynch?”

            Ronan forced himself to nod and then couldn’t stop the movement.

            “Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Kavinsky’s nails dug into Ronan’s shoulder blade. He shifted closer, knocked their knees together violently, and forced an awkward, sideways smile. “It’s not mine. I’m clean. You wanna see my arms? My teeth? My pupils? Babe, look at me. Look at me.”

            Ronan’s whole body trembled, his eyes on the mountain of drugs.

            Kavinsky grabbed his chin and forced him to look in his eyes. “Baby girl,” he whispered, voice rough and soothing all at once, “you’re fucking safe, okay? I’m safe and I love you and I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

            Ronan gave one last slow, deliberate nod. He felt lost in Kavinsky’s eyes, in the darkness of them. But the desperation in his boyfriend’s voice caught on his heartstrings, brought him slowly back to himself. “Okay,” Ronan said, soft. “But I get to hide them and I’m not telling you where they are until the party.”

            Kavinsky smiled. “There you are.” He kissed Ronan hard, the smile still on his lips, and their teeth knocked together. A sound that Ronan had to imagine was Kavinsky’s laugh left him, rumbled through Ronan’s jaw, and Ronan thought maybe he liked Kavinsky like this. Maybe he liked him as a criminal and a crazy asshole and _happy_.

 

On the day of the party, Kavinsky was the picture of a calm, collected event planner. He directed strangers through their apartment to get what they’d come for – the fireworks, the drugs, the sparklers, the alcohol, the car keys – and supervised the whole mess. Where he’d gotten the money for it all was still a mystery to Ronan. It was like for this moment, this day, his parents had reopened his trust fund and Kavinsky’d blown it all for a few hours of fun. Ronan couldn’t say he wouldn’t do the same if he got his money back.

            “Your friends still coming?” Kavinsky asked as he grabbed his apartment keys off the kitchen counter.

            Ronan nodded. He’d invited Gansey and Blue and Henry to help him keep an eye on Kavinsky. Of course, he’d told Kavinsky he’d invited them to see how great his boyfriend was at party planning. Not that he’d believed the lie.

            “Your ex?”

            Ronan snorted. “Not really Adam’s scene.”

            Kavinsky grabbed the front of Ronan’s shirt and pulled him into a bruising kiss. “Good,” he said, so close his teeth scraped Ronan’s lips. “I want you all to my fucking self tonight.” His eyes sparkled with something a little more mischievous than usual, a little more evil, and Ronan’s heart skipped a beat or three. “Don’t be fucking late. And don’t wear this shirt.” He stepped back, heading for the door.

            “What shirt should I wear?”

            “Don’t wear one!”

            Ronan laughed as the apartment door slammed but quickly it sounded cold. As his smile faded, he looked down at his phone. Four hours until the official start of the party. Five or six before anyone actually started showing up. Ronan pushed off the counter and went to his room to change. He needed something he could wear to the Gansey family barbeque and then take off the shirt and be party ready. Which really meant he had to decide if he’d rather piss of Mrs. Gansey or Kavinsky.

            He chose Mrs. Gansey.

            Then he took the train out to the Gansey family summer home and greeted Gansey’s parents with his biggest smile, hoping to distract from the shredded hems of his jeans. He wandered over to the buffet table, stood munching on carrot sticks until Blue found him. She took a carrot stick right out of his hand and bit off the end.

            “So,” she said. She met his eyes with a playful challenge, ready to take him down a notch if he needed it. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

            “Business by day, party by night,” Ronan replied. “What? It doesn’t show?”

            She snorted and popped the rest of the carrot in her mouth. Looking away, she said, “Adam’s here.”

            “Where? I’ll say hi.”

            Blue narrowed her eyes at him. “Last time you said ‘hi,’ we all ended up in the back of an ambulance.”

            “You know as well as I do that that was completely unrelated.” Ronan smiled despite himself. “It’s not my fault that when I yelled ‘hey Adam there’s a fucking bus coming’ he didn’t move out of the goddamn way.”

            Blue laughed. “I guess it’s not.”

            Ronan waited a moment and then prompted, “Where is he?”

            She pointed vaguely over her shoulder.

            Ronan looked past her into the crowd of politicians and their children, of girls in flowery dresses and guys in button downs despite the summer heat. Ronan’s heart was in his throat and he didn’t know why. Kavinsky loved him. He loved Kavinsky. And Adam had moved away for university, gotten too busy for him, fallen in love with someone else, and come back in tears to tell him it was over. To say _I always hoped it’d be you but it looks like it’s not._ Those words felt like an ocean in Ronan’s ears, drowning out everything else.

            “By Henry,” Blue said, turning so she was facing the same way as Ronan. “At the door.”

            Ronan glanced to where she indicated and felt... nothing. Sure, there was the attraction still lingering – he wasn’t fucking blind – and a little bit of pain in his chest, but he no longer felt overwhelmed by Adam. He no longer felt like not touching Adam, not being near him, was like holding his breath for hours on end. He no longer felt like if he didn’t say I love you immediately, every second, until the words lost meaning, that he would explode. Instead he just felt sad like he’d lost something he shouldn’t have, like he’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in an alternate universe where Adam wasn’t his.

            Adam turned slightly and caught his gaze. He smiled, the nervous smile he gave to teachers and strangers and people he thought might look down on him, and raised a hand in a half wave.

            Ronan stared.

            Blue nudged him. “Put him out of his fucking misery.”

            Ronan rolled his eyes but let her half-pull, half-lead him forward. He smiled at Adam who smiled back a little less nervously. Ronan clapped him hard on the back, making him let out a half-cough, half-laugh.

            “Good to see you not in an ambulance, Parrish.”

            Adam rolled his eyes. “Good to see you not in all black.”

            Ronan snorted. “How’s Chloe?”

            Adam met his eyes, searching, then shrugged. “Good, I guess. We broke up.”

            “Huh.”

            “What about you? Anyone special?”

            Blue almost choked on Henry’s drink and Henry let out a small, half-hidden laugh.

            Adam glanced at them, then back at Ronan. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

            “Yeah,” Ronan said. “My roommate. Kavinsky.”

            Adam frowned, tried to hide it and failed. “The asshole you interviewed with for that shitty Craiglist apartment? I thought you went with a different place.”

            Ronan tried to reply but found he had no excuse, no real explanation. He’d gone apartment hunting with Adam after he’d told Declan to fuck off with his money, thinking Adam could get him good value for what little money he had for rent, and they’d met with Kavinsky together. Ronan had forgotten Adam had been there. Kavinsky hadn’t even seemed to notice him, hadn’t seemed to notice much he’d been so high. And Adam had left the place cursing, so far from himself that Ronan had crossed the place off his list. He hadn’t told Adam it was the only place in his price range, the only roommate he could even remotely stand. He hadn’t told Adam about the early September flirting or the flaming fire in his gut when Kavinsky walked around the house naked. And in October, Adam had broken up with him. It hadn’t seemed important after that.

            “You’ve been there this whole time?” Adam said.

            Ronan had no words for it, couldn’t believe Gansey or Blue hadn’t accidentally slipped Kavinsky’s name into conversation. Or maybe they’d known not to. Maybe Ronan had told them not to. He couldn’t remember.

            “How long have you been with him?” An edge of anger, of hurt, had entered Adam’s voice.

            Which Ronan found really fucking unfair considering it was Adam who had cheated on him. “Since December,” he snapped. “Keep your dick in your pants.”

            Adam opened his mouth, closed it, licked his lips. Those shredded lips Ronan used to cherish and now kinda wanted to punch. Adam said, soft, “Sorry. I didn’t... I’m happy if you’re happy.”

            “I’m happy.”

            “Good.”

            Then Ronan made a mistake. He knew it was a mistake before he even opened his mouth but he did it anyways. “K’s throwing a party tonight. You should come. Meet him.”

            “Come?”

            “The Sarchengsey crew can drive you in the sedan.” Ronan took a step backwards, out of the conversation, before Blue or Henry could protest. “I’m taking the Pig.”

            He turned and fled before Adam could decline, before Blue could protest, before Henry could ask if Gansey had agreed to lend him the Pig. Ronan went right for Gansey anyways, pulled him away from some boring-ass Senator and said, “Keys, now.”

            “What?”

            “I fucked up and I need your fucking keys,” Ronan said. He met Gansey’s eyes evenly and didn’t blink. “I don’t need you to fix anything, I just need your car so I can do some last minute damage control.”

            Gansey stared at him for a moment, silent, thinking, weighing the options. Then he dug his keys out of his pocket and placed them in Ronan’s palm. He didn’t let go though, instead let their fingers intertwine for a moment, let his nails dig into Ronan’s skin. “You know what you’re doing?”

            “Not a fucking clue.” Ronan pulled away before Gansey could stop him.

 

The party was in full swing by the time Ronan got there. Between the two hour train and the fucked traffic driving back, four hours had flown by in travel time. Then he’d spent a half an hour at the Gansey’s. Apparently people had arrived earlier than expected, partying even as the sun was dying, and everything illegal could be seen in broad daylight.

            Ronan walked along a line of white Mitsubishis, let his hand drag across the painted hoods. Some had people in them – making out or pretending to drive them – and others sat empty, doors wide open and inviting. The lights from a nearby amusement park lay the scene in a red and white glow, cast shadows across the dirt ground, pooled light in the old tire tracks. Music boomed across the space, coming from huge speakers set high above the partygoers’ heads. It was peppy pop music, the kind of stuff Kavinsky would have scoffed at any other time, but played so loud and with so much bass that the words were indiscernible. Not to mention that everything but the beat was drowned out by people shouting, laughing, talking and car engines revving, coughing. The air had a hot, booze-y quality that came from spilled alcohol and mixed sweat. Ronan couldn’t see a thing through the crowd, had no idea how he was supposed to find Kavinsky in the mess, to tell him he’d fucked up and invited Adam, to see him and make sure he was really okay with his own two eyes.

            Because seeing the place, feeling the atmosphere, he wasn’t even sure he could resist if someone held a baggie of powder under his nose. His heart beat between his ribs, sharp enough to break bone.

            A guy bumped into him, laughing. “Hey,” he said, smiling a bit too brightly. Ronan shied away and the guy grabbed him lightly by the elbow, a grip that was easy enough to break, and pulled him slightly closer. He slipped a beer into Ronan’s hand and winked. “Look like you need some liquid fucking courage.”

            The guy disappeared before Ronan could get a word in edgewise. Ronan looked down at the open beer, glanced around the party and thought, fuck it. If he had to tell Kavinsky he’d most likely ruined his whole party by inviting Adam, he damn well wasn’t going to do it sober. Not while the whole party was blasted. He took a large swig of the beer and started to push through the crowd, looking for Kavinsky’s spiked black hair and neon white tank top.

            He drank as he walked, the stuff going straight to his blood. He stumbled over a couple making out on the ground, turned as an explosion went off among the cars followed by people whooping and cheering and laughing. He got knocked around as he walked, spilled some of his drink, downed most of it, got another beer pressed into his hand before he could even drop the first.

            Someone caught him around the waist just before he stumbled into the last of the white Mitsubishis. It took Ronan a second to recognize Kavinsky like this – glowing and wild, smiling bright and looking at him like the universe was wrapped around his pinky finger – but when he did he smiled like his lips had detached from his face. Before he could lean in for a kiss, Kavinsky plucked the beer from his hand and took a swig.

            Kavinsky pursed his lips hard as he swallowed, checked the label, then looked at Ronan with steady eyes. If Ronan hadn’t known any better, he’d have thought it was concern. “You’ve been drinking this shit?” Kavinsky asked, waggling the bottle.

            Ronan nodded, leaned his weight into Kavinsky’s side.

            “How much?”

            “That’s my second one.”

            Kavinsky studied him for a second and then laughed with a shake of his head. He balanced the beer on the hood of the Mitsubishi and, without even so much as shifting his grip on Ronan, picked up a handle of vodka. He pressed it into Ronan’s hand. “Stick to the hard stuff,” he said, his voice rasping and hot in Ronan’s ear. “You’ll find it agrees with you better.”

            “You agree with me better,” Ronan muttered. He looped a finger through Kavinsky’s belt loop and pulled him closer, pressing his lips to the crook of Kavinsky’s neck without even thinking about it. His head felt fuzzy and his thoughts mushy, like the first time he’d played Never Have I Ever at the back of the school when he was skipping gym. Even then, he’d done a lot of shit, enough to get piss drunk in the middle of the day.

            Kavinsky laid a hand on Ronan’s shoulder and pushed him back with just enough force that Ronan knew he was serious. He wasn’t all that proud of the whine that left his throat, even when it made Kavinsky smile his secret smile, the one full of affection and love and emotions Kavinsky’s childhood had never taught him to name. He whispered, “I’m hosting a party, baby. Keep it in your pants.”

            Ronan hummed his assent and settled back against Kavinsky’s side, their hips knocking together. His brain swam, nagging him, trying to get him to remember something. Absently, he reached back for the beer bottle, craving the taste of it, but Kavinsky tapped the vodka in his hand and reminded him what he should be drinking. He downed most of it without breathing.

            Then, in a rush, without fully swallowing, he blurted, “Awdum’scommming.”

            Kavinsky looked over at him, his expression unamaused. He reached over and pulled the wet part of Ronan’s shirt away from his chest. With a sigh, he gestured for the people Ronan assumed were his friends to walk away and turned to Ronan. When he met his eyes, he smiled slightly and said, “You’re a sloppy fucking drunk.”

            “No, I’m not.”

            “No, you’re not,” Kavinsky mumbled as he went to work on the buttons of Ronan’s shirt. He pushed it off his shoulders and added, “Thought I told you to come shirtless.”

            “K,” Ronan said. He clutched Kavinsky’s tank top collar and pulled him closer, too close. The mischievous glint entered Kavinsky’s eyes, his breath hot on Ronan’s lips, and Ronan almost forgot that he was supposed to breathe. Not breathing felt natural in Kavinsky’s presence, real, like somehow oxygen wasn’t something he needed anymore. “K. I fucked up. I fucked up big time.”

            “What’d you do?”

            Ronan’s breath caught as Kavinsky traced his fingers over Ronan’s chest. He swallowed hard, reminded himself that he knew how to control himself around Kavinsky, knew what he was getting himself into with the other boy. Knew very, very well who was standing in front of him and what he could do. Ronan let out a deep, steadying breath, and said, “I invited Adam. I told him to come.”

            “Thought you said it wasn’t his scene.” Kavinsky’s voice was low, soft. It rumbled through Ronan like a sunset wave.

            “He pissed me off.” Ronan pressed their noses together, swiped their lips against each other in a not-quite kiss. “Said some shit about you. I don’t really remember. I told him to check out the party, check out you.”

            Kavinsky chuckled. He dipped his fingers under the waistband of Ronan’s jeans and knocked their hips together. “Check me out?” He scraped his teeth over Ronan’s jaw. “You lookin’ for a three-way, Lynch? Because I don’t know how much more your ass can take.”

            “Are you mad?”

            “Mad?”

            “I invited Adam. You said you wanted me all to yourself.”

            Kavinsky kissed him, light and loving, so unlike himself. “I have you all to myself,” he whispered, “whether Adam comes to the party or not.”

            Ronan kissed him back, melded their lips together until he could feel nothing else, not even the tips of Kavinsky’s fingers against his hipbones. He curled his fist into Kavinsky’s tank top and pulled him closer, so close they stumbled back onto the car’s hood and fell back against it. Ronan loved the feel of Kavinsky’s weight on top of him, of his body wrapped around him, of his tongue down his throat and the unbearable heat of him and his thin, lithe body slowly getting stronger.

            “Come on,” Kavinsky whispered, right into his ear. He twisted their fingers together. “Let me show you around.”

            Ronan didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to see a thing other than the inside of his own eyelids. He wanted Kavinsky to turn him around and fuck him against the hood of the car. But he let himself be dragged away, through the party, tried to let his eyes occasionally flicker away from his boyfriend’s ass.

            And the party truly was spectacular. People knew Kavinsky. They waved and stopped to chat and complimented him on the party and on his boyfriend. Kavinsky smiled back at Ronan when this happened and Ronan managed half-sentences around swigs of vodka. The music seemed to get louder, the sparklers more colourful, as they walked. Someone else pushed another beer into Ronan’s hand and he finished it off before Kavinsky even looked back at him. He felt dizzy and light and like he was flying a bit.

            They came to the edge of a group of dancers and Kavinsky made to turn away but Ronan pulled him into the crowd. He pulled him tight, fingers digging into Kavinsky’s ribs, into the meat of his ass, as he pressed their lips hard together until he tasted blood at the back of his throat. He felt Kavinsky chuckle into the kiss, a sound so bright and foreign that Ronan wanted to kiss him until he’d pulled it all from his throat, until he’d loosened the clog that had stoppered Kavinsky’s laugh for so long. He felt hands along his bare chest, petting down his spine, keeping him close and wiping sweat away from his forehead.

            “You’re burning up,” Kavinsky muttered between kisses. “We should sit down.”

            “We should fuck.”

            Kavinsky laughed and licked deep into Ronan’s mouth, filthy and full of promises. He pulled back, grabbing both of Ronan’s hands, and pushed through the crowd of dancers. Ronan rushed to go after him, trying to keep his hands on him, to untwist their fingers so he could feel Kavinsky’s arms, his shoulders, his chest, his ass, his _dick_. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t managed to get a hand down his boyfriend’s pants yet. It was usually so fucking easy but tonight it felt like he was pulling away from him, keeping him at an arm’s length.

            “Your friends are here,” Kavinsky said and slowed.

            Ronan glanced towards Gansey, Henry, Blue and Adam, who were walking in a neat group. Ronan wrapped his arm around Kavinsky’s waist and kissed his cheek, wanting his smile back, wanting his laugh. “They love you. You know they love you.”

            “You love me.” Kavinsky glanced over at Ronan with a thin smile and kissed his cheek. “That’s enough.”

            The four of them stopped a few feet away, Ronan thought, even though he saw them as if through a telescope. They glowed blue, the colour of Gansey’s shirt emanating off of him and surrounding the others. Ronan narrowed his eyes, tried to focus, found the whole world floating and Kavinsky the only stable thing in the universe. He dragged his nails down Kavinsky’s arm, relishing the feel of skin beneath his hand. Kavinksy took his fingers in his own and kissed his hand. He smiled at the other four.

            “Welcome to the Fourth of July,” Kavinsky said, his voice too loud, too cartoonish. “A place full of fireworks, drugs, alcohol, and smashed cars. Get ready to get fucked or get the fuck out.”

            The four of them stared.

            “Tough fucking crowd,” Kavinsky muttered.

            Ronan chuckled into his shoulder, laid a kiss on his shoulder.

            “What’s wrong with him?” Gansey asked.

            Kavinsky shrugged. “Too much vodka. Guess the Irish can’t hold their liquor after all.”

            “Take that the fuck back,” Ronan snapped, even though he thought Kavinsky might be right. He pushed off him anyways, stumbled a bit but managed to stay on his feet. He pointed in what he thought was Kavinksy’s direction. “I could out drink you any time, any place. Right here, right now.”

            Kavinsky gave him a doubtful look. “Sure, Lynch.”

            “Take the fucking challenge, K.” Ronan stepped into his space and pressed their noses together. He had to fight to keep his expression serious, not to laugh as Kavinsky’s eyes got too big and blurred into one blackness. “Or are you going soft on me?”

            Kavinsky swallowed his smile but not well. It caught on the corner of his mouth, twisted it up like a fish hook. He pressed his palm into Ronan’s hip, holding him steady. “What are the stakes, Lynch?”

            Ronan’s eyes flickered to his friends and then he leaned in close, his lips ghosting at the shell of Kavinsky’s ear. “I win, I get to fuck you.”

            Kavinsky’s teeth scraped Ronan’s neck as he laughed. “I win, you suck me off on the hood of one of the cars.”

            “Fucking deal.”

            Kavinsky pushed him back a little and smirked at the rest of the group. “Who’s ready for shots?”

            Ronan knew his friends well enough to know they wanted to stop this. Even stumbling over his own feet and seeing the world in shades of red, he could see the worry lines around Gansey’s mouth, the quiet way Blue and Henry whispered to each other, the hard set of Adam’s mouth that said _this is a bad idea_. But their worry, their concern, washed away in comparison to Kavinsky’s steady hand on his waist and his constant, never-fading smile showing off his crooked teeth.

            Ronan pressed a kiss to Kavinsky’s shoulder, started to suck at the crook of his neck. Kavinsky pinched his hip. “You wanna start blowing me before you even lose, Lynch?”

            “I’m gonna blow you on that car whether you win or not,” Ronan said, too loud. He knew because Kavinsky glanced behind them but Ronan didn’t care. “I’d get to my knees right fucking now if you’d let me.”

            Kavinsky laughed, pressed their lips together quick, then dumped Ronan against the makeshift bar. Ronan hit the palms of his hands on the table as Kavinsky ordered a platter of shots. The bartender – a kid dressed in a Hawaiian shirt who barely looked like a high school senior – set up bright red shots in front of them. Ten each.

            Kavinsky raised his and cocked an eyebrow.

            Ronan downed his first one without toasting.

            Kavinsky took his shot too.

            Ronan was already on his third, feeling the sharp burn of alcohol fight its way through the reddened haze. He heard people start to chant around him, telling him to drink, so drink he did. He downed shot after shot until there were no more in front of him and the bartender was fighting to keep up with him. After what seemed like seconds, Kavinsky clapped a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back.

            “You win,” he said. “You fucking win, Lynch. My fucking god.”

            Ronan turned his eyes on Kavinsky – ignored the way the whole scene spun backwards as he moved – and his gaze landed on the bloody red of Kavinsky’s lips. The alcohol had given them a cherry colour, a biteable look, and Ronan couldn’t resist. He took Kavinsky’s face in his hand and kissed him, rubbed their tongues together to taste more alcohol. Sharp, violent kisses, like in the first weeks of their relationship, like before things steadied, like when Kavinsky was a glass-shard-boy and Ronan was trying not to get stabbed.

            No more. He’d gladly get stabbed.

            “Marry me,” Ronan whispered.

            Kavinsky blinked at him, out of breath.

            “Fucking marry me,” Ronan said, louder. He couldn’t take his eyes off Kavinsky even as a couple people cheered. Kavinsky didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe. “Fucking marry me right now or I swear to god I’ll get down on one knee and—”

            “Suck me off like you promised?” Kavinsky said, his voice a little too breathless to blame it on the alcohol and the kissing.

            Ronan closed the space between them, barely hitting Kavinsky’s lips. He kissed his cheek, his jaw, the thin line of stubble down his throat, and then finally dipped his tongue down his throat. He shoved Kavinsky back, willing him to take him where he wanted to go, and Kavinsky turned out of the kiss. Ronan continued to kiss his neck, to kiss any skin he could reach as Kavinsky stumbled through the crowd, leading Ronan back to the white Mitsubishis.

            “This is a fucking bad idea,” Kavinsky said, turning to Ronan.

            Ronan already had his fingers on Kavinsky’s belt buckle. He tried to kiss him and meet his eyes and undo his pants all at once. It didn’t work too well. “You’re a fucking bad idea.” Ronan smashed their faces together, barely managing to get a kiss in, and shoved Kavinsky’s pants down to his ankles. He slammed him back against the hood of the car. “I like bad fucking ideas.”

            “You like fucking bad ideas.”

            “Love it.” Ronan kissed Kavinsky’s lips, his jaw, the base of his throat, his stomach, and then settled onto his knees. He pressed his face between Kavinsky’s legs, up against his boxer-clad dick. He breathed in the warm scent of it, rubbed his nose against the growing hardness, and pressed open-mouthed, teethed kisses to the inside of Kavinsky’s thighs. His fingernails dug into Kavinsky’s legs, making him tremble.

            “Remember the first time I did this,” Ronan muttered. He kissed the soft skin of Kavinsky’s hip, bent back the waistband of his boxers to get lower. “You wanted to push me, to break me, and I just wanted you to feel safe for fucking once.” He bit at the skin of Kavinsky’s waist. “Now I know you’re not gonna break. Not gonna fucking scare. But you still feel safe.”

            “Safe. Yeah.” Kavinsky spread his hand over Ronan’s smooth head, his fingers warm. His breath hitched around the words. “But not fucking breakable, Lynch. Don’t forget it.”

            “Ronan. Call your fiancé Ronan.”

            Kavinsky laughed. “I didn’t fucking say yes.”

            Ronan pulled down Kavinsky’s boxers and licked up the length of his half-hard cock. He moved his hands further up his thighs, pressed the pads of his thumbs against the insides of Kavinsky’s thighs. He could feel the cool metal of the car’s hood against his fingers, pressing harshly against his hands under the weight of Kavinsky’s shaking legs.

            He pressed a kiss to the tip of Kavinsky’s dick and then took it in his mouth, swirled his tongue. Kavinsky groaned. Ronan bobbed slowly, taking more and more of Kavinsky into his mouth, keeping his mouth wide to swallow him.

            Ronan remembered that first night, going to his knees for Kavinsky and his mistletoe-anointed dick. He remembered Kavinsky’s fingers on the back of his neck, the small wounds he found in the morning. He had choked on Kavinsky’s length then, happy to have his mouth be used like that, happy not to be wanted after what had happened with Adam. Kavinsky had been the anti-Adam, everything Adam hadn’t been, and Ronan had fallen for it like a fucking sky diver. He’d taken one step, let Kavinsky shake him up and tear him to pieces and use him like a rag doll and despite it all, he’d still fallen in love. Despite it all, he’d still ended up with a drug addict who loved him enough to go to rehab.

            Now, Ronan took his time, savoured the taste of Kavinsky, savoured every shake of his legs and sounds that came out of his lips. He drew circles on the insides of Kavinsky’s thighs, coaxed his legs further apart to give himself more room to maneuver. At a better time, in a better place, Ronan might kneel like this for hours, feeling the weight of Kavinsky in his mouth, knowing he could reduce such a fearless man to a trembling mess. But now, despite the fucked up atmosphere and the cold hood of the car and the pounding music, Ronan knew he needed to hurry up.

            He swirled his tongue again and sped up his motions, taking as much of Kavinsky as he could and pumping the rest of his considerable length with his hand. He felt the hardness in his own pants, the friction of his hard-on against the seam of his jeans. He moaned around Kavinsky, sending a string of curse words spilling from Kavinsky’s lips. When he came, like he always did, he cupped his hand around the back of Ronan’s neck to keep him close, to keep his release spilling into his mouth.

            Ronan swallowed as much as he could, licked his lips, and then dove back in to clean up Kavinsky’s dick, his thighs, the bit that had dribbled off Ronan’s chin and onto his shin. Ronan kissed one of Kavinsky’s balls, then his stomach, then grabbed him in a real kiss before he could pull away from him.

            Kavinsky winced and pulled back. “Tastes awful.”

            “I love it.” Ronan kissed him again, held the back of his head so he couldn’t pull away. He liked the height advantage of Kavinsky sitting on the hood of the car, hoped he’d done well enough to keep Kavinsky’s legs unsteady for a little longer. “I love you.”

            “Love you too,” Kavinsky breathed out.

            The words made Ronan’s heart skip a beat. Even though Kavinsky had said them before, the confession was still rare coming from him. He still said it only in moments when he truly felt it, when his heart was full, when he felt undeniably safe. Ronan was happy that with his pants around his ankles at a sketchy Fourth of July party was one of those moments.

            Kavinsky kissed him hard and then pushed him back, stumbling to his own feet. He broke the kiss to get his pants back up and do up his belt buckle. “We should find your friends again,” he said. “Let them know I didn’t murder you or anything for beating me.”

            “In a bit,” Ronan said. He kissed Kavinsky some more, letting the kisses get lazy and playful, like they did sometimes in the afternoon if they got bored. “I wanna marry you.”

            “You’ve said that.”

            “But I meant it.” Ronan pulled back enough to look Kavinsky in the eyes. “I mean it. Marry me. Joseph who-the-fuck-knows-your-middle-name Kavinsky. Marry me.”

            Kavinsky shook his head, laughing slightly, and then kissed Ronan. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”

            Ronan wanted to protest, wanted to demand an answer, but Kavinsky was already moving. He started to follow after him, rapidly realizing that he was still hard. He stopped short and pulled Kavinsky back against him so that the problem became obvious.

            Kavinsky chuckled and looked back at him. “I’m not gonna drop to my knees for you out here like some bitch.”

            Ronan nibbled at his ear. “No knees then. Just jack me off.”

            Kavinsky gave him a look, then glanced around the crowd. Satisfied no one was paying them any attention, he turned to Ronan and shoved a hand down his pants. Kavinsky’s rough, no-nonsense touch sent shivers down Ronan’s spine. He stepped closer, jerked his hips into Kavinsky’s movements, and pressed their foreheads together. Kavinsky moved his hand faster, cursing under his breath, muttering for Ronan to get off faster. Ronan only laughed and pressed kisses to Kavinsky’s forehead, to the bridge of his nose.

            Kavinsky grabbed the back of Ronan’s head and pulled him down against his shoulder. He hissed, “Come on. Fuck my hand. Get into it.”

            Ronan whined slightly but did as asked. He jerked his hips, kept in time with Kavinsky’s rhythm, fought against coming for as long as he could. But Kavinsky tilted him over the edge by whispering, “I’ll marry you if you fucking come right now.”

            Ronan felt his release course through his body, a firework of pleasure to rival the dizzy sensation ruling his body. Kavinsky pulled his hand out fast and offered it to Ronan. Ronan pressed his lips to Kavinsky’s fingers, licked his own come off his hand without wasting a drop as Kavinsky used his other hand to zip Ronan back up.

            “Your friends,” Kavinsky reminded him, pulling his hand back. He wiped it on his jeans. “Thinking you’re dead.”

            “Just engaged,” Ronan said. “Same thing, right?”

            Kavinsky hip-checked him and then grabbed his arm to keep him steady. “You all right?”

            “Great.”

            Kavinsky nodded, seeming unconvinced, and they wandered back into the thick of the party. Ronan hung off Kavinsky all night, moving from conversations with his friends to conversations with his own friends. At one point, he sat in the passenger seat of a Mitsubishi as Kavinsky played game after game of chicken and never lost. Unless actually hitting the other car counted as losing. Then he lost three or four times, sending cars into tailspins, wrecking fenders, burning rubber, and sending dizzying whiplash down Ronan’s spine.

            Kavinsky howled with laughter through it all, his insanity growing with each passing hour and Ronan loved it. He loved the impending darkness and Kavinsky pressing sharp kisses to his neck and the alcohol flowing and the cars crashing and the dying lights from the abandoned fairground. He loved Kavinsky laughing, really laughing, and the bright white sparks in his dark eyes.

            When it came time to light the fireworks, Ronan insisted on helping, on lighting fuses, on running with Kavinsky back and forth. Kavinsky relented after much begging, but kept his fist curled tight in the back of Ronan’s t-shirt. He pulled him back time and again, got his hand burned, and still laughed through it all, pressing kisses to Ronan’s fingertips and biting at his ear and leaving hickeys like they were inexperienced teenagers at the prom.

 

Ronan woke to a pounding headache and a ringing phone determined to make it worse. His tongue felt dry and heavy in his mouth. Reaching over, he slammed his hand repeatedly down on the bedside table until he found his phone. Flipping it open, he pressed it to his ear and managed a choked out, “Hello?”

            “Hey, Ronan.” Gansey, yelling. “Checking to see if you’re alive.”

            “Why are you shouting?”

            “I’m not.”

            Ronan groaned and put his hand over his eyes. Even the orange afterglow of sunlight penetrating his eyelids was too much at the moment. “Well, speak fucking quieter anyways,” Ronan mumbled. His own voice rumbled through his eardrums and shook him to the core. Nausea reared in his stomach but he swallowed it down. “Why are you calling?”

            “To make sure you’re alive,” Gansey repeated. “To make sure you and Kavinsky are okay. You were both pretty fucked up last night.”

            “Both?” Ronan repeated.

            “Both,” Gansey confirmed.

            Ronan felt his stomach roll for a whole new reason. Telling him he’d been fucked up cleared up a lot of things – namely why he felt like shit and he couldn’t remember half the night let alone his own middle name – but telling him Kavinsky had been fucked up just confirmed his worst fears about the party. He started to run through the contact list he’d been given after Kavinsky had left rehab. His NA sponsor. The doctors. The rehab facility. Counsellors. Numerous other people Kavinsky had refused to speak to ever again.

            “How’s your hand?” Gansey said.

            “My hand?”

            “You burned it on the fireworks.”

            “No, that was K. K burned—” Ronan ended the sentence with a string of curse words as he pressed his free hand into the mattress. He’d burned the skin right off his palm. “It hurts like a bitch. Thanks for asking.”

            As he spoke, Kavinsky rolled over in bed and started to kiss Ronan’s burnt fingers, slow and lazy.

            “I wanted to take you to the hospital but you kept insisting your husband would take care of you.”

            “My husband?”

            “Fuck if I know.”

            Ronan grumbled his assent, was about to ask something else – Like what had Kavinsky taken? How bad was “fucked up” on a scale of ecstasy to heroine? What did he do with a drug addict who had slipped up and definitely didn’t want to go back to rehab? – when Kavinsky puked all over his hand.

            “Fuck,” Ronan said. “Fuck. Gansey, I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

            He dropped the phone and started to shake puke off his hand as Kavinsky laughed. The sound cut off abruptly with a moan and Kavinsky holding his hands to his head.

            “Fuck you Irish can drink,” he said. “Remind me not to challenge you to anymore drinking competitions.”

            Ronan gave him a bleary look. “We had a drinking competition?”

            Kavinsky looked up at him, smiling. “You don’t remember?”

            Ronan shook his head.

            “Good. Then I don’t have to pay up.”

            Kavinsky sat up, bypassed the spot of puke, and moved to straddle Ronan. He kissed him hard – he tasted bitter, like old food and acid reflux – and rolled his hips in a way that made Ronan moan in spite of himself. There were things to talk about, puke on his hand, and his horrible hangover to deal with, but a few well-placed kisses from Kavinsky and his tingling laughter turned Ronan to putty.

            “You should have seen yourself last night,” Kavinsky muttered between kisses. He pressed one hand to the side of Ronan’s neck and started to let it slide down across his chest. “God, so fucking far gone. Pulling me around the damn party telling people you were gonna marry me.”

            “What?” Ronan managed, opening one eye to look at Kavinsky. His smile was brighter than the sun, more painful to his hungover state. He closed his eyes. “Did not.”

            “Did so. You found the plastic seal from a soda bottle and put it on my finger.” Kavinsky raised his hand to show the green band, bent and almost broken. He laughed and kissed Ronan some more, spoke through his kisses. “You went up to random people and were like, _I’m gonna marry this man. I’m gonna be Mr. Joseph Kavinsky._ Except you swore a lot more.”

            Ronan groaned and leaned back. He hit his head on the headboard and whimpered. Kavinsky laughed more.

            “Sorry,” Ronan managed.

            “Why?” Kavinsky kissed down the length of his neck, sucked at old wounds that sparked with pain the more he played with them. Ronan wondered what he looked like in a mirror, how badly bruised his neck was, how much he and Kavinsky had fucked last night to make his ass feel like a punching bag. As Kavinsky toyed with the waistband of Ronan’s boxers, he said, “I said yes.”

            “Yes to what?”

            “Marrying you, asshole.”

            Ronan snorted. “Doesn’t count. You were high as fuck.”

            “You were high as fuck.” Kavinsky stopped kissing him to look him in the eyes. “I was clean and sober. Well, clean.”

            “You just puked on my hand.”

            “Like I said, your ass can drink.”

            Ronan stared at him for a long moment, wondering if Kavinsky was still capable of lying to him. Ronan had never cared much for lying, had never really figured out if Kavinsky had ever lied to him or not, but looking him in the eyes now, he oddly believed him. “You didn’t slip? You’re still clean?”

            “Yeah.” Kavinsky kissed him and dipped his hand into his boxers. Ronan let out a rumbling moan and pressed himself up, closer to Kavinsky as his hand wrapped around his dick. Kavinsky let their lips slip off each other so he could whisper in Ronan’s ear. “I’ll even tell you what you won, if you’re good.”

            “How good?”

            “Get in the shower,” Kavinsky muttered. He slipped off the bed with a cheeky grin and started towards the bathroom. “And I’ll show you how good you have to be.”

            Ronan wiped the rest of the puke from his hand and got to his feet, chasing after Kavinsky. He waited while his boyfriend turned on the hot water, then kissed him while they helped each other strip out of last night’s underwear. Ronan groaned when Kavinsky grabbed his ass, rubbing their dicks together and pressing every inch of their bodies into each other. Kavinsky growled into the kiss, kneaded Ronan’s ass in his hands and pulled back only enough to speak.

            “I fucking love you, you know that?”

            Ronan met his eyes, surprised to hear those words unprompted. “I love you too.”

            “And if you were serious last night, if you really want to marry me—”

            “Of course I want to marry you.”

            Kavinsky kissed him hard, let their tongues mingle and alcohol and sweat and puke to pass between them. He stumbled backwards a few steps, helped Ronan under the hot water of the shower and then sidled up behind him. His dick was hard between them, pressed against the cleft of Ronan’s ass. Ronan felt his breath catch as Kavinsky continued to return to last night’s hickeys, to bite them fresh, make them redder.

            “What’d I win last night?” Ronan asked, half out of curiosity, half to keep from blowing his load the moment Kavinsky’s long, thin fingers wrapped around his dick.

            Kavinsky bit Ronan’s earlobe, then whispered, “Said I’d let you fuck me.”

            Ronan came, hard.

            Kavinsky laughed in his ear. “Guess it’s not gonna be right now.” He turned him around to kiss him on the lips, slow and lazy, and they kept kissing until the water cooled.


End file.
